-- Edna St. Vincent Millay

To what purpose, April, do you return again? 
Beauty is not enough. 
You can no longer quiet me with the redness 
Of little leaves opening stickily. 
I know what I know. 
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe 
The spikes of the crocus. 
The smell of the earth is good. 
It is apparent that there is no death. 
But what does that signify? 
Not only under ground are the brains of men 
Eaten by maggots. 
Life in itself 
Is nothing, 
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs. 
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill, 
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers. 

April is an Idiot

indeed, breeding lilacs and etc.

And you're right, Edna, sticky beauty --
flowering trees preparing to 
turn riot and daffodils popping 
their bulbs underground -- 
it's not nearly enough 

to distract us from hordes of
maggot-brained men and their 
empty cups of impotent (they say 
important) bluster. 

Why, even today, we again 
dragged our 
sorry asses 
to the polls, cast
votes (stones) 
against their endless campaigns to
confine us in their
pumpkin shells (because there 
they vow they will keep us,
very well), these 

citizens of the fall, these
leafless November mother-

Suggested soundtrack: Aretha Franklin, “R-E-S-P-E-C-T”